


in happier days

by whisperedsilvers



Category: NCIS
Genre: Ellick, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, Pre-Relationship, but seriously, ellick is my new obsession, like i'm ready, when will nick meet jake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-03 04:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17277071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedsilvers/pseuds/whisperedsilvers
Summary: Ellie. Nick. Jake. And then some. —Eleanor/Nick.





	in happier days

**Author's Note:**

> Nick's accent is doing things to me. Thought I'd contribute to the fandom. Let me know what you think.

It’s the most uncomfortable feeling. That feeling where you feel like you could vomit your entire stomach up, but the strain of your heaving gets caught in your throat and then you’re gasping for air because nothing—nothing but the pull of muscle and the swerve of nausea keeps you grounded. It’s choking. She’s choking. She _thinks_ she’s choking, but she’s not. The air is caught in her throat and her chest wants to _seize._

Eleanor gets it together though.

Her face morphs into a nonchalant, uncaring, _unflinching_ mask of passivity.

She focuses on her breathing, the hum in her blood and the smell of cedar coming for her partner because if she thinks about it, she’s been in far worse positions than this one. This situation makes her uncomfortable because of how _personal_ it is, not because she didn’t how to handle it, but because it’s just plain _awkward._

“Ellie,” Jake breathes.

Eleanor’s fingers twitch, but she lets his voice roll over her like ice in winter, and she greets him almost blankly, “Jake.”

But only Nick—only _Nick,_ could pick up the faint undertones of _hate_ lingering in her tone.

Still, he does not speak, because there was something unprofessional about the two of them—the two of them, because he says _Ellie,_ not Eleanor.

“W-What are you doing here?” he asks quickly, whether it’s in relief or if it’s in excitement or—or maybe haste, she doesn’t know.

“We have a few questions to ask,” Nick speaks up this time and flashes his badge, “Special Agent Torres,” he looks over at his partner for a second and his gaze his a blanket, “Chatter. International. Have you picked up on any?”

Jake’s expression shifts to one of wariness and sternness, “That’s—”

“Joint investigation with higherups,” Eleanor interrupts him before he could get his feelings hurt, it’s a small slab of kindness, one that he does not deserve, but Nick tends to think with his heart rather than his brain at times—this being one of these times, since Jake is questioning his _authority,_ “I need everything you got.”

“Oh,” Jake says and that’s all he says, “Um where?”

“Libya and Somalia,” she replies just as curtly.

Jake’s fingers move almost carelessly on his keyboard, as if he really doesn’t want them – her – to leave, but at the same time, he wants _them_ to leave. He wants to say something more to her, anything, but with Nick just _there—_ it’s hard to say anything at all, and Nick knows that.

“I’ll send the copies over to NCIS, but we picked up some new chatter last night. There’s a shipment coming in from a Yousef Fazel out of Somalia,” Jake starts off again, “We have a translator go over the recordings right now.”

Eleanor’s eyebrows furrow.

“What kind of shipment?” Nick inquires strangely.

“We haven’t gotten that far up in the translations yet,” he answers and then shrugs, “It could be anything from small arms to drugs.”

“Somalia isn’t really known for drugs,” Eleanor murmurs to herself, her neurons begin to fire rapidly as she starts to connect the pieces, she sees that light in Jake’s eyes that reminds her of how he used to look her — still looks at her and it makes part of her ache, “I’ll have McGee correspond with you.”

“Let’s go, Ellie,” Nick nods at her, he purposefully doesn’t say Bishop because—because he wants to stick the knife in.

And it’s the name or the nickname or maybe it’s the way Nick says her _name_ does Jake’s face twist.

The knife twists.

—

Eleanor speaks first, “He’s my ex-husband.”

It _clicks._

“That’s Jake?” Nick says in disbelief, he doesn’t look at her with pity or sadness, no he looks at her with _fury_. Hot, blood-red fury that simmers in his veins and bounces off her bones. He’s heard the rumors, the quiet tidbits that McGee had fed him, or the small pieces of gossip that Abby told Gibbs, he’s heard them, but he never mentions or even asks about him — he figures that Eleanor would tell him when she’s ready.

Somehow, it never quite prepared him for today.

“I’m pretty sure I greeted him by his name,” Eleanor says wryly.

Torres is not amused, his teeth ache, “I didn’t know it was _that_ Jake.”

Bishop stays silent for a few moments as Nick makes a left at the intersection. She asks, softly, “How much do you know about my divorce?”

Nick doesn’t lie, “Not much. I heard you ran back home. That whatever happened really messed you up,” he cracks a smile to let her know that it’s _okay_ to talk to him about this, “That your brothers were ready to kill him.”

It works.

Eleanor smiles, but it looks more like a grimace.

But it’s a start, he thinks.

“Well, _ran away_ is a bit of an exaggeration,” she says vaguely – _bolted_ would’ve been a better word – her teeth gnaw at her lower lip, “I went home. Took some time off. I needed to get myself together.”

“Gibbs was okay with that?”

“Gibbs was very supportive, if you can imagine that,” Eleanor feeds him with a small smile and then it falls with her next statement, “Because he knows what it feels like to be cheated on.”

Nick blinks slowly.

Once.

Then twice.

And he slams his foot on the brakes. His jaw cracks and when he speaks, it sounds more a like a snarl, then a whisper, “ _What?_ ”

Eleanor doesn’t reply.

But Nick knows her, he likes to think that he knows her and he knows this knocks at her self-esteem. Deep rooted insecurities that she’s shown him once or twice, how she was bullied because she was different, because she wasn’t _stupid,_ because she was brave because she was mature, because she was everything everyone wasn’t—because she was Eleanor and not some—

“What kind of _idiot_ lets _you_ go?” he says more to himself than he does to her.

Eleanor hears it, no matter how faint it is—she hears him and the raw honesty etched in his words.

“It’s my fault,” Eleanor breathes like it hurts, even as she gets out of the car and her feet are heavy on the asphalt of the parking lot, “I spent a lot of time working, not enough time with him and—”

“Elle,” Nick is right in front of her and she looks at him with tired sage eyes. He’s close, he’s so very close that his knees knock with her’s and she can feel the heat of him radiate even through his thin V-neck. It’s almost intimate, touching without really touching, but it is his eyes that _hold_ her.

Dark and heavy, he looks at her, fingers zip up her leather jacket, silver glinting white in the sun and the jut of his palms press into his hips, as if he’s not sure where to hold her, he licks his lips, “It is _not_ your fault. Do you really think that anyone— _anyone_ could toss _you_ away?” he scoffs disappointingly, the fact that he has to say these words aloud—Nick shakes his head, “Cheating is a choice and now he has to live with knowing that he let _Eleanor Bishop_ go.”

Eleanor feels warmth swell in her, but she shakes her head because he can’t—can’t say these things because she’s just _Eleanor Bishop,_ she’s not—

“You’re a forever girl y’know,” Nick says softly when she leans against the car door, he laughs warmly, huskily, “The kind of girl that you can’t live without, the kind of girl that’s just—it.”

“You don’t mean that,” Eleanor’s voice is shaking, maybe she’s shaking because it’s the words and his _voice_ that says it with honesty and truth because Nick would _never, ever_ lie to her.

Nick is looking at her, but he’s _always_ looking at her—always looking at her with warm, warm, coal-like eyes and a certain type of softness that makes the nerves in her run wild because _what the fuck_ this is Nick — it’s Nick and that’s just _it._

It’s _Nick._

He leans down, fingers catching onto the belt loops of her jeans, hand running down the ends of her hair, he murmurs, “Are you sure?”

.

.

.

 

 

 

 


End file.
